Discordance
by Sixty-four K
Summary: The unbelievable has occurred- Glorfindel of Gondolin has returned from the grave. Lindir does all he can for the golden miracle that dwells within the walls of Imladris, but even the most harmonious of songs can sound as harsh as breaking glass in the ears of the broken. Rated for general darkness, angst, ect. NirCele's present for stalking! Part of the "Shards of Imladris" series


_NirCele, this is your present for stalking(that is, finding my code on my profile;-), at long last! Dedicated to you, written for you, and sure to disturb you. ;-) I was nervous about how people would react to it, because it's very confusing, but your most recent story made me make up my mind, after leaving this sitting on the cloud for maybe a month. I do hope that you enjoy it, despite its weirdness._

 _Some people may benefit from reading NirCele's story **Rescue of a Dead Elf Lord(or Not)**_ _either before or after reading this. It may clarify things a little bit._

 _I'd like to thank earthdragon, Random Reviewer, and Dr. Pym for reviewing my story **Such Interchange of State** as guests. Thank you so much!_

* * *

He sat, leaning against the wall, legs drawn up to his chest. The window, which was on the wall directly across from him, was opened, and the cold fall breeze blew into his face, filling his lungs with the clear, drinkable air of the valley.

Lindir liked the breeze. It never bothered him, not even when it made him shiver, because it gave him inspiration for songs. Anything and everything had the potential to inspire him, but not everything did. But the breeze always did, and that's why he left the window open. Of course, it might bother Erestor. Erestor didn't like it when the wind blew his papers around, when it wreaked havoc upon his well-organized stacks of information. But Lindir was willing to risk Erestor's wrath.

Lindir looked down into his hand, considering the instrument that lay wrapped between his long fingers. It was some sort of a woodwind instrument- a flute, perhaps, but it looked slightly different from other flutes that he had seen before: a little thicker, a little heavier in the hand. Erestor had given it to him; he had said that he was sure that Lindir would pick up on how to use it soon enough.

"You're a genius, Lindir," he had said. "Don't let anyone tell you otherwise. I can't play music, so you've got to do the job for me."

So he did. Lindir could play anything. Of course, Lindir had more experience when it came to strings, rather than woodwinds. Lyres were his favourite instrument. But it was always nice to try something new.

Lindir raised the maybe-flute to his lips, and blew gently. The soft, mellow sound of a D-flat echoed through the hall. Lindir already knew that, by covering the holes on the body of the instrument, he could change the pitch played. But he liked D-flat. It reminded him of where he used to live, a long time ago. He wasn't going to change the pitch right now.

Then, Erestor came out of the door, farther down the hall. Lindir looked up briefly, then looked back down to his flute. Erestor didn't like being stared at. He only liked staring at people.

Erestor's soft steps came closer, then, Lindir felt him sit down next to him. Uncharacteristic, to be sure- Erestor was too dignified to sit down on the floor when there were seats available. But, Lindir supposed, Erestor wasn't always consistent.

"Do you like your new flute?"

Lindir nodded. "It's a little different from the other ones I've seen."

Erestor looked out the window as he answered. "It's the kind they play in Harad, apparently. I thought you would like it, so, when a passing traveller offered one for sale, I bought it straight away."

"I do like it. Thank you."

Silence took a gentle hold of them for several units of time- Lindir wasn't sure which they were. Then, he chanced a look at Erestor's familiar, pale face. He was surprised to see it grimmer than normal, pale eyes determinedly focused out of the window into the wild blue above. "Are you alright?" was all Lindir could think to say.

Erestor blinked. "Not really," he muttered. "Just another childhood fantasy slain."

"What do you mean?"

The elf scholar sighed. "Haven't you dreamed of meeting a figure of legend? One of those brave, beautiful warriors of old?"

Lindir didn't answer; he knew it was a rhetorical question.

Erestor continued quietly. "I used to imagine what it would be like to meet one. A brave, once-slain knight, standing before me in all his glory. I would stop and stare. It would be too much to comprehend. I would want to ask so many questions! How he had stood up to such terror, to see a city full of loved ones burning before his eyes. What would it be like? What would it be like to fall, flailing, into a fiery abyss?"

Lindir watched as the scholar spoke, his face betraying no emotion. "When I grew older, the answers to my questions came to me. I no longer needed to know how he could witness such terror. I-"

He stopped, then, taking a shaky breath, continued. "I had myself, and survived it, unlike him. And yet, the dream remained. I wanted to know! I wanted to see what a legend looked like. And now I know."

Lindir started, the trance of Erestor's sing-song words broken. "What do you mean?"

Erestor sighed, yet again, head falling into hands. "Have you not heard? Glorfindel of Gondolin has returned from the grave, in all of his torn-apart, emaciated, utterly shattered glory."

Lindir gasped. "But… how?"

"We don't know," was Erestor's reply. "We found him near here, within the guards' usual patrol. It's certain that he is the true Glorfindel- who else would bear the mark of the Golden Flower upon his clothes? No one."

"What does he look like?" whispered Lindir, afraid that the fallen elf-lord, who was, apparently, somewhere in Imladris, would hear him.

"In some ways, very much how I imagined," said Erestor. "The golden hair, the blue eyes. He does have a noble appearance. But he looks so broken! I can't explain it- but he looks nothing like how the Balrog-slayer should look."

"Maybe he's just tired from his ordeal," said Lindir. "It could be that he will look right after some rest. Besides, you shouldn't judge so much on appearances."

"I know," said Erestor. "Remember that I said that this was a childhood dream, Lindir. I have no logical reason for this prejudice, unfortunately; I'm simply answering your question."

Lindir nodded silently. "Can I go and see him?" he asked.

Erestor shook his head. "I don't think so. I shouldn't even have been in there. Lord Elrond only put up with it because I'm useful. Not to say that you aren't useful, of course," he amended hastily, "but I mean that I can document, and things, and I had a scroll at the ready, so he must have assumed that I was there to document this historic event."

"Did you? Did you document it?"

"No. I have it memorized. I'll do it later, once I can get the bias against it out of my head."

Erestor got up, quietly walking down the long hall, eventually disappearing into the distance. Lindir watched him go, thoughtful. Erestor wasn't usually the kind of person who was easily disappointed. Now, Lindir was, of course. Devastation didn't come easily to him. But it did to Erestor. Perhaps the tolerance to drastic change was what awoke such disappointment in reaction to something small.

But the re-appearance of the Balrog-slayer was hardly a small event.

Lindir just had to take a look. Maybe he could help the elf-lord feel better. Surely Glorfindel liked music.

Lindir slowly got up. He made his way to his little room, which was on the upper floor of the Last Homely House. On the window ledge was his harp. Perhaps that wasn't the best place to put it, but the spot was within easy reach of him when he was in the twisted tree just outside of the window. Lindir carefully picked up the harp, dusting off the miniscule bits of dirt that had blown in through the window.

He was going to bring the harp to Glorfindel, and he would play it for him, and calm him down. The flute, at the moment, was too difficult for Lindir to play that for the warrior- after all, he had only received the flute a few days ago. He was far more skilled on the harp, and, although he loved the lyre the most, it seemed almost wrong to play something that he enjoyed so immensely if he was doing it to make someone else happy.

He held the harp tightly against himself as he tiptoed towards the infirmary. He couldn't help but feel the cold trepidation inside himself. Perhaps this was the way that Erestor felt when meeting Lord Glorfindel.

* * *

The infirmary was cold and white. The light that shone through the open window was pale and haunting. There was no cool breeze here- the window was firmly shut.

Lindir thought that the air felt dead. Not at all appropriate for a place of healing. But, he was a simple minstrel, and no judge of what was best for patients.

Stretched out upon a bed, lying flat on his back, was Glorfindel of Gondolin.

He looked like a great, golden, drowned cat. Lindir felt instantly ashamed for the comparison that had popped into his head, but it was true. The elf-lord was long, thin, bedraggled. His golden hair was golden only by convention- it had no shine to it. The muscular, smiling lord that Lindir had seen in illustrations of books was nothing like reality.

Lindir tiptoed over to the bed, then knelt down upon the cold, hard floor. He looked up at the pale face, at the closed eyes. Erestor had said that they were blue, but they weren't opened now.

Did Lindir dare play the harp now? He had seen what he had come for- he had seen the Balrog-slayer. But he had said that he would play the harp, and Lindir wasn't one for making excuses. He would do what he said he would do.

With a trembling hand, Lindir strummed a chord on the harp.

Glorfindel awoke.

The Balrog-slayer's breaths instantly became shallow, fast and unsteady. His eyes- which were indeed a pale, pale, blue- turned and met with Lindir's.

Lindir stared. "I'm sorry…" he said in a breathless whisper. "I didn't mean to wake you up."

Glorfindel turned away, staring through the ceiling. "Would you…" he said, voice cracking. "Would you please...not play? I… can't… I can't appreciate it right now."

"I'm sorry…" said Lindir again. Of course the lord of Gondolin didn't want to hear his music. No one really did. They all just listened to humour him...

"But," said Glorfindel. "Can you sing?"

Lindir nodded, then, realizing Glorfindel wasn't looking at him, said, "Yes," as quietly as he dared.

"Then," breathed Glorfindel. "Please do."

"What would you like me to sing about?"

A whisper. "Anything you like."

* * *

Elrond heard the scream from across the valley. In his rush, he didn't notice the dark stare of Erestor, the counselor's cold gaze from the library window as Elrond dashed away to the infirmary.

Glorfindel was staring out of the window when Elrond arrived. The window was now opened, and the wind blew his ragged golden hair wildly, and wound his white nightshirt around his knees. The Balrog-slayer turned and met Elrond's startled gaze. His smile was genuine, but his eyes were filled with terror.

"Your minstrel here sang about something quite ironic," he said, gesturing towards an unconscious figure upon the floor. "I'm afraid I reacted quite badly- he didn't seem to like the look on my face," His grin grew broader. "He certainly woke me up, though! I'm better now, but he isn't."

Elrond stared down at the limp form of Lindir, then up at the wild grin upon the returned elf-lord's face. Had Lindir fainted? Glorfindel surely would not have hurt him- but no. Lindir was uninjured. Elrond chastised himself for even thinking such a thing of Glorfindel, the miracle sent back to save Imladris, the fully and completely good elf-lord- but then, this was a most strange occurrence.

"What did he sing about?" Elrond asked, voice unsteady.

"Fire, war, death," said Glorfindel. "Among other things, but that was what stood out to me. You should teach your little minstrel some happier history. He's too young to know about the dark subjects in these songs."

"He's older than he looks," said Elrond, looking down at the harp in the minstrel's hands. "This is hardly the way to respond to him, I should think. He meant to welcome you."

"Yes," said Glorfindel, his voice dark. "He did welcome me- to a place where I should not be welcomed to."

Hesitantly, Elrond moved towards Glorfindel, but the warrior held up a hand. "Leave me. For a little while. I need to think for a little while."

Elrond nodded slowly. "Come along, Lindir," he said, gently shaking the minstrel's shoulder. Lindir's eyes flew open, and he stared up towards the Balrog-slayer. "I'm sorry," he said, voice shaking. "I'm so sorry. I didn't think."

Glorfindel stared down into the minstrel's terrified eyes. "No. You didn't."

* * *

 _Have I disturbed you yet?_

 _This story is going to be part of a series, focusing, most likely, on the early days of Rivendell. The first part that I've written is called **Such Interchange of State** , and, even though it won't clarify this story very much, you may enjoy reading it if you enjoyed this story. The stories in this will be published out of chronological order, but, when I write more, I will put a chronology on my profile. This series does need a name, so if anyone has any suggestions, feel free to give them!_

 _Thank you for stalking, NirCele! XD You gave me the motivation to write this, so I hope you liked it!_

 _Please review- I love hearing your thoughts and theories. :-)_


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